


All is Well

by beautifullyheeled



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-06-06 10:44:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6750715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beautifullyheeled/pseuds/beautifullyheeled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post Second Wizarding War II, John comes to Baker Street ready to face what he couldn't before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All is Well

**Author's Note:**

> This is a part of the Story a Day May Challenge over at storyaday.org
> 
> The prompt was to use the last line of one of your favourite books; I chose the final line to the Harry Potter series. 
> 
> This story takes place inside a 'verse I've been building for almost three years now. Maybe one day I'll set aside the time to bang it out. 
> 
> Love and Light~ Bo

The walls were the same. The exposed brick still moldered, slightly dusty in the open expanse, the flat broken only by the now bare windows once graced by heavy drapes. Victorian wall coverings, Edwardian furniture, and the constantly changing map that took up the whole west wall were a welcome sight. Books still covered every available space. Some in towers. Some in piles. All of them in some sort of order only known to their owner. The whole of the place hummed, laden with unused magic. It was understandable, it had been three years since he’d stepped foot in the shop left to him, let alone the flat itself; thoughts of the last time he’d been there turned the taste in his mouth tannic. 

Tea. Warmth. Home. This had been his for a time.

On the counter sat a perfectly perfect cake, it's creamy icing and sliced kumquat rounds cheerily beckoned on white clouds of sweetness from the pass through; tea set out for two at the small table that had housed more experiments than food. The overly floral teapot sat next to two very mismatched cups. He could almost hear the strain of a work mid-composition. Felt the instinct to call out that tea was on. With sweets. How hopeful a house elf must have been to pop in with this; a favourite of his.

The need to fortify himself with a cup of the wonderfully scented brew was almost visceral.

As he poured, a half chuckle left his throat even as tears pricked at the corners of his eyes making them burn. Out of habit, he poured the second cup and added one sugar, one milk, then turned to hand it off to hands that were no longer there. But then, there were. Long, pale fingers balancing the saucer, then the cup. Murmurs of thanks whispered in the semi-stale air. He closed his eyes and sank into the feeling of life in Baker Street, if only for a moment. That moment. Before the wizarding world had crashed headlong into the muggle one. Before they were called by his damn brother. Before Sherlock’s wand had been broken. Before he’d had to watch him go where he could not follow. 

Harry had told him once, after, what it was like. With the stone. How it had been with his wand, before. How he had watched, lost, and moved forward. How he understood exactly how John felt, the need, and offered a way for him to move forward as well. 

_They are always with us, the veil, it’s thin. I’ve seen it with my own two eyes, John-_

“They say you miss the ones that touched you deepest most. How wrong they were.” The warmth of the silky baritone washed over him. “You are buried with them, their memory, until you wake one morning and you aren’t. Do you remember telling me that?” He opened his eyes to find Sherlock in front of him, close enough to touch. “You were wrong. It never stopped.”

Tea soaked his shoes as the cup fell to shatter on the ancient wood floor. “Sherlock- I- where?”

He grabbed at him, expected to meet nothing with his fingers, the other mis-match cup forgotten somewhere as Sherlock allowed himself to be pulled in. 

“I had no idea you’d be so affected.” Long arms surrounded him, pressed him close to the rhythmic thrum he’d memorised years before. “I knew you’d, mourn, miss me possibly, but what you have done-” Warm, live, lips pressed to his cheek, his brow. “Hit Wizard, John.”

“You were gone, just like Fred, just like Lavender, only later. Still a loss to the war- How, Sherlock, how?”

“The simplest answer is almost always true- a boggart. Timed just so. Oh, my injuries were grievous, and my wand lost, but you lived. That’s what mattered.”

He held him closer, pulled at the shorn curls, what was there of them at least, and kissed him.

At Baker Street, in that moment, all was well.


End file.
